


Chrysalis

by Letterblade



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Commitment Ceremonies, F/M, Heavy Bondage, Ritual Hunting, Sensory Deprivation, So much bondage, alternate universe - d/s verse, and crying, dom!Petra, no sex just bondage, sub!Ashe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27638944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Letterblade/pseuds/Letterblade
Summary: This morning, Ashe was sworn in as the first Knight of Brigid. This evening, he'll kneel before his queen again to swear his collaring oaths. But now, it's time for Petra to ceremonially hunt him down and claim him as her submissive.
Relationships: Ashe Duran | Ashe Ubert/Petra Macneary
Comments: 4
Kudos: 48
Collections: DS-Verse FE3H Fics





	Chrysalis

**Author's Note:**

> I got brainwormed with this the morning the AP called the election, and I did not expect to be sitting there writing Ashe happy-crying about his d/s wedding at the same time I was happy-crying about Joe Biden, but this is 2020 and here we all are. For once a good version of that statement?
> 
> This fic takes place in and is inspired by the d/s-verse AU created by [dustofwarfare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustofwarfare/pseuds/dustofwarfare) for the [Imperative](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654516) series. It's in its own continuity, just shares the same general concept. Biological imperative to fulfill dominance/submission urges, might trip some sensitivities because of it, etcetera, but man, I barely even touched on the urges in this fic, it's just happening in a world where d/s is normal. Thanks to [mllelaurel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mllelaurel) for beta—sorely needed since I wrote this in way too much of a hurry.

Ashe stands at the very east end of the royal palace of Brigid, on the last wooden platform before the whole sprawling structure drops off into untamed forest, and lifts his chin, and takes a deep breath, and starts unlacing his armor.

The other sides of the palace face a vast sprawl of houses and common buildings, just like any other city, but here, to the east, a whole swathe of land is cordoned off, left wild, only managed a little. The queen’s private hunting reserves, lined with red posts that mark it off from the city, stretching all the way down to the sea.

He’s come to understand that it serves many purposes. Emergency food reserve, for just as a lord of Faerghus might keep a stock of dried grain, a lord of Brigid keeps a stock of live game and vast fruit trees. A habitat for the shyer creatures of the woods, so that they need not be driven off the island entirely. Training grounds for the hunters of Brigid, the city folk, and especially the royal family. Petra herself, he knows, had learned to hunt out in these woods when she was barely more than a toddler.

Today it is empty, and Petra will be hunting two-legged prey.

Ashe tucks his smalls into the neat little pile of clothing, heart tripping a little faster. Naked, with the rich air of Brigid warm against his skin, so alive that it feels almost like a lover’s touch, he wiggles bare toes on the smooth-planed wood and stares down into the forest.

It’s a custom. Part of his collaring, essentially. He’s already sworn one set of oaths, and at the top of his pile of clothing is the garter of the Knights of Brigid, specially designed. He’s the first to ever wear it, and he’d clung to it for a long moment before finally, reluctantly, peeling it off and laying it aside. He and Petra have spoken about this, of course. For some couples, it’s little more than a quick romp, and a submissive wise in woodcraft will often let themselves be caught. But Petra is entirely confident that she can run Ashe down no matter how he struggles. And she’s not wrong. He’s a village boy. The most he’s ever been in wild forest is some of the battles back during the war.

It’s more the running that worries him, to be honest. And whatever else is out there. At least he probably won’t be out for long, and the tree canopy is thick, so he’s not going to sunburn his bare ass. Not like that one time on the beach.

Ashe takes one last deep breath, lets it out, and steps down off the platform.

His foot sinks deep in the carpet of leaves. It’s soft, squishy, probably has a few more bugs than he needs to worry about right now.

A roar of voices comes up from the palace behind him, a pound of drums. He flushes, briefly, because of course they can all see him from the open upper stories, and he’s mostly gotten used to the loose relationship Brigid has with clothing, but _still_. He can barely make out what they’re saying—he knows some Brigidi by now, but everyone’s shouting at once—until Petra’s voice cuts through with a bright, almost frightening laugh, the kind of unfettered fierceness she rarely allowed herself in Fódlan. “Run, sweet submissive! Run for your freedom!”

Ashe inhales, face flushing and heart fluttering at the power in her voice, and—well. Walks. As fast as he dares. Picking his way over roots and fallen branches, barely able to even see where he’s going because he’s too busy trying not to trip. The light falls away quickly; the forest stretches above him like a cathedral, huge branches like buttresses holding up the shimmering green roof. It’s stunning, and he feels minuscule beneath it all.

A single twig cracks behind him.

Ashe squeaks, skitters faster. Crashes through a few bushes, barely recovers, and then trips on a root. He catches himself, going down hard on his hands and knees, and for a moment, he expects Petra to land on his back right then.

Nothing.

He freezes there, heart pounding. Maybe if he’s very, very quiet…

Nothing.

It must have been an animal, he tells himself, forcing himself to breathe deep and even. Petra would never snap a twig, would she? But she can move easier than him in here, and she must be closing fast. He shoves himself to his feet, wiggles his aching toes, and picks up the pace, pushing deeper into the woods. It takes all his concentration just to keep his footing, keep thorns from his skin, avoid the one shiny-leafed shrub that will leave him itching for days.

A huge flanged tree-trunk, as wide as he is tall, gives him a moment to tuck himself against its bark, catch his breath, and survey his options. He could try to find some better place to go to ground—he might last longer that way than running. And he does want to make it a _little_ interesting. Out of pride, if nothing else.

But wouldn’t it be more fun if she takes him down, rather than tracking him to his hiding place like they’re just playing hide-and-seek?

There—an animal run cuts like a tunnel through the underbrush. Ashe grins, heart pounding faster. Then casts about for a moment, finds a branch large and straight enough to pass as a short lance, and tucks it under his arm, parallel to the ground. He’d get caught on it in an instant in the underbrush, but with a clearer run, he actually has a chance.

The faint echoes of the hunting drums still cut through the forest.

Ashe ducks down to fit and runs as fast as he can manage, clutching his makeshift lance with sweaty palms.

“Run, little deer!”

Ashe yelps, heart pounding and a buzz of sheer excitement shooting down his spine. Petra’s voice seems to be coming from nowhere, everywhere, somewhere high above. And Ashe runs, panting, a heady and delicious fear building in his blood.

“Run before I claim you!”

Ashe nearly trips, scrabbles his legs under him as laughter rings out, runs faster. The leaves blur by. Sometimes, over the hammering of his heart and feet, he thinks he hears a soft rustle of leaves, the creak of a branch—is it her? Does she mean for him to hear?

“Before I bind you hand and foot and heart and will never be letting you go!”

_Please_ , Ashe would say, except he’d bite his tongue running, and the sheer animal terror of being hunted down is bubbling through him. The anticipation is maddening—she could come from anywhere, any moment, she’s probably toying with him, he doesn’t know whether she’ll net him or trap him or just grab him or—

He sees the trip-rope before he runs chest-first into it, but he’s moving too fast to stop.

Flat on his back, he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, waiting for her to grab him—

Nothing.

He scrambles to his feet, panting, makeshift lance at the ready—

A rock-heavy bundle of solid muscle lands on his back.

“You have antlers, little roebuck,” Petra says in his ear, wild with delight.

Ashe twists, trying to shake her off—and she lets herself be thrown, flipping midair to land like a cat a few feet down the run. She’s barely more than a blur as she charges, and he fights back on well-trained instinct, a prod of his makeshift lance to keep her at a distance.

It barely lasts, of course.

He goes down in a blur, kicking and struggling—she’s grabbed the stick and he let go too slowly—steel-wire muscle against his hip as she wraps a leg around him, pinning him, shoving him down on his face to catch his thrashing arms behind his back, forcing them down to pin them with one hand.

Rope, grass-sweet and burry-soft, closes around his wrists. Lashes them together, tight and rough, and Ashe shivers and struggles without thought—it’s fast and messy compared to her usual work, pinching, and his heart is pounding with nerves. Then one of his kicking legs, the other, dragged into a merciless hog-tie, and Ashe wails into the forest floor.

“So many struggles, little deer,” Petra says, ruffling his hair, and yearning rushes through him.

“I—I want this, I do, I’m not…” He feels almost foolish. He _likes_ it when she ties him up, but the chase has fired his blood—he squirms, trying to get his fingers around to reach the knots.

“You are my prey,” she says, so matter of fact that it makes his whole belly twist with arousal. “And so you struggle. But you are my submissive, and so it is joyful. I do have understanding.” She picks up his makeshift lance where it has fallen, turning it over in her hands—he can more or less see her, looking up the length of her strong bare legs. She’s wearing barely more than him, a loincloth and a breast-band, though it’s the soft ankle boots he’s truly jealous of. “You are thoughtful,” she says brightly, and threads the sturdy branch between his wrists and his body, restricting him further. Though it’s not any harder to reach the knots, really, so he starts picking at one.

“Why…why a deer,” Ashe says, trying to stall her as he works at the rope.

“You fled down a deer run. Do not worry.” She pats his forearm. “You will not be wearing these poor bindings for long.”

Ashe whines faintly behind his teeth. She has a small but tightly-stuffed pack strapped to her hip, he notices. A knife on her belt.

“But first. The heart of this.” She crouches. There’s a high flush in her cheeks, a wild light in her eyes, and she brushes an unruly curl of Ashe’s hair out of his face—the straightening _really_ hadn’t worked in Brigid’s humidity, so he’d kind of given up on it. “I have hunted you down, my submissive, my Ashe, because I do not wish to be parted from you.”

Ashe’s mouth goes dry. For a moment, his fingers still. Some part of him is still aware that this is a ceremony. Only one stage of many. He’ll speak his collaring oaths later, as a submissive of Faerghus, for they’re doing both, but here, in the forest, with no witnesses but the spirits themselves, is the Brigidi equivalent. “And you have won me,” he says, and is almost surprised to hear his voice shaking with emotion.

She touches his lips. “Then speak now, Ashe Ubert of Gaspard, Knight of Brigid. You may regain your freedom with a word. But I offer you my mark, a place with me for all your days, to be safe and loved and fulfilled until you return to the sea at my side.”

The answer is in Brigidi. There’s no translation, really. They’re entire ideas packed into a word, a statement of both doing and being. To be free as a submissive, holding his fate in his own hands, meeting his own needs, independent but lonely. Or to be marked as another’s, as irrevocable as the literal mark that will be inked into his skin, kept by their side, dependent and cherished.

There’s no statement about obedience. There is in the Faerghan collaring oaths, of course, but not in this. A submissive in Brigid is one-who-is-kept. A dominant is one-who-keeps. It’s not as if obedience isn’t also a thing, of course, it’s just not the first focus the way it is in Faerghus. It had sent his head spinning at first.

Ashe trusts Petra with everything that he is. So he breathes in. Feels his heart pounding in his chest. And speaks the word that will forever change his life, his skin, his burial, his entire existence.

Petra beams, lip quivering, and buries one hand in his hair.

“And I love you,” Ashe says, voice tight in his throat.

“And I love you,” Petra echoes. “So do not worry, little deer.” She reaches into her bag with her other hand. “I will be binding you with much more security and comfort, since I shall keep you forever.”

Ashe makes some strange keening noise he’s never heard himself make before, riding a rush of emotion that leaves him dizzy, limp on the forest floor. Even as he redoubles his efforts, fingers scrabbling. His eyes are hot, his lip trembling, and as he opens his mouth to gasp for air, Petra puts two fingers on his tongue.

“Hush,” she says, adoring. “I will not bind your face yet, since you seem as if you will weep.” Her own chin is tight, dimpled, her eyes shining. “But do not speak.”

Ashe nods, shaky, blinking hard against the tears. One knot loosens. He’ll have to reach his ankles to undo it entirely—the stick’s making it hard, but he can almost—

“Then first,” Petra says, reaching into her bag for something Ashe can’t quite see, “I bind your clever hands.” She catches one wrist, pulling his desperate fingers out of the rope, and something soft slides over them—

A mitten. Fingerless. Lined with rabbit fur, divinely soft, so snug it forces his hand into a fist. She pulls the rest of the rope aside so she can buckle it securely around his wrist. “I bind your hands,” she continues, reaching for the other one, “so that they shall do only deeds of justice, only things that bring us both joy.”

Ashe cracks.

It’s relief, bursting in his chest. It’s relief, and overwhelming happiness, and a love so strong he doesn’t even know how to endure it except by wailing, sobbing outright, kicking and struggling against her, and some tiny part of his brain that’s still thinking worries about how this looks. Hopes desperately that she understands—that he’s not panicking, that he’s crying from joy—but she must, somehow she must, because she smiles like the sun, even wet-faced, and bends to kiss his temple. Then reaches into her pack again. “I had these mitts made special for you, little deer, because I know you are very clever, and will need to be very safe.”

Two locks shine in her palm.

Locking buckles. Must be. Ashe strains to even open his hands, and can’t, and sobs in bliss as he hears one click, then the second. The wrist straps are snug. He couldn’t get the leverage to dislocate his thumb to wriggle out even if he wanted to. Though she’s just holding his wrists together, isn’t she? He could still—

There’s a tug on his wrists, and as he strains, they don’t budge. She’s tied them together, maybe? No, tied them to the stick pressed along his back, it’s moving with him. He kicks, trying to twist away, and she locks one of his legs down under hers, expertly pinned with her wiry strength, and catches the other foot, peeling away the bitingly hasty rope she’d taken him down with and replacing it with a solid cuff, turn after turn, until there’s two or three inches of rope stacked up his ankle. Snug enough to be secure, but not pinching.

“I bind your feet,” she says, “so that you will walk a path of righteousness forever by my side.”

Ashe cries as she folds his leg up, laying rope high up on his thigh. He cries harder as she lashes his ankle to his thigh, because one time she’d done this, folding his leg very tightly in half, skin flush to skin, and he’d gotten a leg spasm and had to be cut out, but this time—this time there’s a fist’s width of space, so that his calf isn’t pressed so hard against his thigh, like she really does mean to keep him comfortably forever, and he feels like his chest is bursting open.

Petra finishes, pets his hair, and starts tying his other leg just the same. Then she rolls him into her arms, flattening a hand over his chest. “I bind your heart, so that it will know peace at my side.” Ashe hiccups wetly and smiles as the world blurs wet. “So that it can hold all the happiness I can fill it with, and never know loneliness again.”

That means a harness as tight as a hug over his chest, pinning his biceps to his sides, lacing his forearms into place, all worked around the stick to hold him rigid. That means time, held snug in her arms as she wraps him up, skin against hot skin. When she’s done, rolling him back and forth in the dirt with his feet twitching and his eyes and nose running, he can’t move his shoulders, can barely even slide his forearms around a half an inch, and his sobs are running dry, heaving, exultant.

“I think,” Petra says, soft and fond, after scrubbing her own face with the back of one hand, “the rest will be easier if I put you in the air. There are many more ways to bind you, after all.”

Ashe makes some muzzy noise of confusion—it doesn’t even occur to him to speak—as she loops some rope through the harness, flings it over a branch, and throws her own body weight down into it to test it. Twice, thrice. Then pulls. The harness takes him up comfortably, and he shivers full-body in the ropes as the ground falls away. She doesn’t pull him high. Just eye-level with her. He laughs, soft and loopy. They’d been almost the same height when they’d met back at school. It had been so strange to look down on her when they met again.

The forest stretches out around them, and the birds sing, and Petra brushes all the leaves and dirt from Ashe’s helpless body. Clean his scrapes and rubs salve on them. Tenderly wipes his face and holds a cloth to his nose to blow. Then kisses all over his temples as his crying finally stutters out, leaving a deep, floating calm in its wake.

“Good,” she says, petting him, kissing his mouth. “Good. Be at peace, little deer. Sweet Ashe. You are not going anywhere. You are mine.”

Ashe hiccups. Nods. She gives him some water from a small skin at her hip. Smoothes hands over his face, down his body. Presses their foreheads together. “Are you ready to be quiet, little deer?”

He squirms vaguely in the ropes. His arms are utterly useless—no leverage, his hands locked away. His toes, maybe?

“Ashe?” Petra prompts gently, kissing his temple.

He nods, a little desperate. She smiles, kisses his mouth deep and thorough, and then reaches into her bag. “Then I bind your mouth, so that you may speak clarity and comfort to me and those you love.” The gag she pulls out is leather, a finely tooled panel with a padded bulb on the inside, and he opens his mouth for it obediently even as he squirms compulsively in the rope. “And so that you may speak truth and justice to the world and those placed in your care,” she adds, smoothing his hair carefully out of the way as she tightens the strap. The insert is big, stuffing his mouth full, but soft, satisfying to chew on, and not big enough to ache.

Petra kisses the panel over his mouth, then his temple again, and reaches down to pat one of his folded legs. “I shall bind these more, do not worry. Though I think…” She tilts her head, calculating, then digs in her back for a length of cord. “I have bound your mouth and hands. Let me make you safer.”

Ashe hums vaguely and rolls his head, eyes hazing closed as he worries contentedly at the leather filling his mouth, and blinking open again as he feels something between his toes. Goddess. He tries to pull his feet forward so he can see, savoring the strain of curling up in midair, and Petra lets him, indulgent. She’s looping cord between each toe, then tying the bundle off to the cuff around his ankle, pulling it taut, forcing his foot to flex.

He makes muffled little noises and tries to move that foot, and maybe he can a little, maybe he can wiggle his toes, but they’re no use. If he could get a knot right in front of them, maybe, but they’re jutting out in midair. She pats his thigh as he whines into his gag, pushing his legs back down where he can’t see them. Then does the other foot to match, even as long rolling shudders run through Ashe’s body, leaving him boneless in their wake.

It feels like something unhitches inside him, deep down, as he feels the cords draw tight on his other foot. Something that leaves him wailing, almost dry sobbing. Somewhere beyond relief, like he’s slid so far under he’s crashed through the bottom of his mind and he’s falling through the sky. It’s not like she hasn’t bound him before, countless times. She’s even done it so well that he couldn’t get out, struggled to exhaustion and lay there in bliss as she rode him—she’s an expert, after all. But today, somehow, knowing what it means, knowing that by the time he’s unbound, her mark of ownership will be forever inked onto his skin—it’s different. She’s going to such meticulous lengths to take away every possible avenue of escape, to _prove_ that she can, and it’s different, so different.

Petra stands and runs her hands down the length of him, giving his ass a quick squeeze where it’s framed by the ropes high up on his thighs. “I know it is a little strain to your toes,” she says, reaching down to squeeze the arch of one foot. Her hands feel so very warm, like his skin is lighting up everywhere she touches. And everywhere he’s bound, because he’s hers, this is her holding every inch of him. “I’ll add more to help with that later. But do you know now that you will not be escaping?”

_Hnn_ , he says, and nods, limp. Moving is suddenly tremendous effort, like he’s forgetting how.

Her smile grows wicked. “Good. Because you are mine, and that is filling my heart with joy. And I shall be doing whatever I wish with you.” He whines again, trembles again, goes even limper. Knots of tension he didn’t even realize he was holding. A life’s worth.

Petra pulls more rope out of her bag, and he’s beyond wondering how she’d managed to pack so much in there, beyond knowing where he is, beyond—beyond himself, maybe. With the rope, there’s another piece of leather, tooled to match the panel of the gag, and it takes him a long moment to realize it might be meant to fit over his eyes. But there are no straps, only holes along the edges.

His bewilderment falls away as she wraps rope around his temples, along with a few more shreds of coherent thought. Rope on his face always sends him deep, and today—Goddess, today. There are constant soft pleading noises from somewhere. Maybe it’s him.

“I bind your eyes,” Petra murmurs, adoring into his ear as she works, “so that you may see beauty and good fortune and bounty in your future.” Leather closes over his eyes, darkening the world—and doesn’t press down. A ring of padding and rabbit fur keeps the blindfold off his eyelids. “So that you may see truth with compassion. So that you see this life you have chosen flourish.” Ashe blinks—blinks and stares—and there’s nothing. Blackness.

The forest air is warm and alive against his skin. Petra’s own body nudges him as she works, hot and bare and welcome. He wiggles his fingers fruitlessly in their fur prisons, squirms his hips, opens and closes his knees, chews on his gag, and still—still there’s nothing. He’s going to fall away, he thinks, dim and giddy. There’s no ground anymore. By the time she takes that off his face, _he’ll_ have fallen away, he’ll be a different person, a butterfly hatching from the chrysalis she’s spun.

Petra weaves the harness around Ashe’s head, and he falls deeper and higher into the ink-blackness he sees with his open eyes. It runs under his jaw, holding it snug and tight around the leather in his mouth, muffling him even further, and she takes her time to tuck the rope under the strap so that she can take out the gag quickly if she needs to. It leaves his left temple bare. That’s one of the spots the limner will need, to ink the mark which means Ashe is a kept submissive, never to be claimed by another. The other spot is over his heart, open between passes of rope, where Petra’s personal mark will go. Not that he’s thinking much about that right now. He’s not thinking about anything.

She ties it off to the stick running up his back, pinning his head in place, and as he squirms vaguely, finding a few inches to loll side to side, she weaves a little more, taking away even that. Then pats his cheek once she finishes, firm over the rope snug against his skin, and her tongue traces wet-hot over the shell of his ear. A scrape of teeth. “Are you ready to go deeper, little deer?”

He can’t even nod. He hums. She traces fingers over his throat—bare. The one thing she will not bind. He staggers under the fantasy of her just buckling his collar on as he’s bound like this—but no, no, his oaths matter. He will kneel at her feet and speak his oaths. Or the Ashe that crawls out of this cocoon will, an eternity away.

Wax and cotton fill one of his ears. She works meticulously, adjusting for a snug fit. “I bind your ears,” she says, and her voice comes a little strange through the plug, “so that you may hear comfort and wisdom and all the great stories of life.” He can still hear her on that side—it cuts through when she’s close—but the songs of birds, the quiet thrum of the forest, are falling away. She comes to whisper on his other side, so close he can feel the heat of her breath. “And so that you may hear my commands, my praises, and my words of love for all our days.”

He keens adoration into the gag as she plugs his other ear.

The world goes quiet. His heart is a pounding drum, ever-slowing. He can hear his breathing, faint rustles from beyond. A small, callused hand touches his face, and he almost twitches in surprise. Padding closes over one ear, more rabbit fur, filling the hollow and keeping the plug in place, softening the world further. Then the other. Ashe hangs limp, not even sure whether his little whines are making it past the gag.

Petra’s hands wander, and the slightest touch feels vivid, almost overwhelming. Checking, tugging, making tiny adjustments over everything she’s done so far, simply groping. Soft kisses. There’s nothing left but her hands, the heat of her body. The buzz of more rope being pulled through one of the bands across his chest. Thin cord biting in right beside his nipple. Then the other side, twisted to squeeze them gently. “I bind your nipples,” she says, voice distant, “so that…ah. Well. Because they’re cute.”

Something like a giggle fills his ears, and he feels himself smiling against leather, loopy.

Her hands move lower, exploring his legs, squeezing his feet. Then warmth presses against the inside of one thigh—she’s leaning her body against his, maybe, while she does something? He might be swaying a little, nudged against her. He’s not even sure what’s up or down anymore.

Something hard and wet rubs up against his asshole, and Ashe makes a nerveless moan into his gag, quivering. “I bind your ass,” she says, “so that you may be filled with as much pleasure as you can bear.” The plug sinks in almost frighteningly fast—he might be more relaxed than he’s ever been, it’s big, the stretch knocks a long groan out of him, but the stem is narrow, and it sits deep and full and comfortable, heavy against his prostate.

Then it’s pressed in a little more snugly, and he realizes she’s wrapping him up in more rope. Tight between his legs, tying the plug inside him. Framing his dick. Diamonds of it digging tight into his ass. Another harness, tied securely to the stick, pinning his hips in place, and he floats endless as she weaves it. Turns of rope hold his entire torso, rigid, immobilized. He can wave his knees back and forth, move his feet a little—

“I will be back,” Petra says in his ear. “I think I need another stick to hold you, little deer.” A demanding squeeze on his ass amongst the tight rope. “You are my prey, after all, and I will not let you move a single inch.”

Ashe’s whines echo in his own ears as her hands leave him.

He hangs in the darkness, squirming weakly, moving his knees because he still can. The wind stirs against his skin. There is no time.

“I am here,” Petra murmurs, and her hand runs through the tufts of his hair that stick up between ropes. “Sweet Ashe.”

Ashe sighs in relief. Would lean into her touch if he could.

She kisses down his shoulder, squeezes through the heavy leather and fur of the mitts, and sets to binding his knees, slow and finicky, the second stick latched between them to spread his legs wide and pin them in place. Then, at his last hapless wiggles, she adds gentle turns of rope over the arches of his feet, easing the strain on his toes. Just as she’d promised. The soles of his feet pressed together. Ankles tugged more securely into place.

Cord loops around the base of his scrotum.

“And,” Petra says sweetly, “I bind your cock, so that your pleasure and your seed will be mine.”

It’s a gentle weaving up the length of his cock, nowhere near tight enough to ache. Oddly comforting, like she’s holding him here too. Holding every inch of him. She tugs it into place, holding his dick pressed up against his belly, and her lips brush the head in benediction, wet and hot.

“There,” Petra says, patting his ass. He can hear the fondness in her voice, cutting through wax and cotton. “Did I get carried away, do you think?”

All he can give is some tremulous noise in answer. _Ah-ah._ No. Goddess. It’s perfect.

“Run, sweet submissive,” she croons in his ear, twining arms around him where he hangs, and he strains and strains and can’t move an inch. Not anything. “No?” Petra teases, and bites his shoulder. “Poor little deer.” Her fingers trace over his bare throat, a little exposed from how the rope on his face tilts his head up. “Hunted down and trussed up.” She sinks teeth into the side of his throat, sucking hard, and he moans in delight, hopes it leaves a mark that will sit under his collar for days. “You have given me your freedom.” The other side of his throat, a matching mark, and her hand wanders over his chest, tweaking his nipples where they sit between their cords. “And you shall never be getting it back.”

The world jolts, soft and swaying. Ashe trembles limp in the rope. Petra’s arms wire-strong around him. Her soft grunt as she steadies him.

“Instead you shall have my life and my love,” she says, and kisses his temple where the limner’s needle will mark him. “Until there is not breath left in us.”

Ashe moans in answer.

Everything tips. He has a convenient handle. The very branch he’d picked up as a lance, what, a year ago? That some boy had picked up before he’d fallen into pieces to be remade in darkness and silence and endless coils of rope like an embrace. The jolt of every footfall runs through him as she carries him off to another world, another self, with the warmth of her shoulders against his bound arms, a helpless package slung on her back. He unwinds, pace after pace, shedding drop after drop of old woes like caked-on grit in the bath.

A roar like the sea rises soft around him, and the beat of drums runs through the bones in his chrysalis as his heart unfolds its wings.


End file.
